


Things Unsaid, Things Undone

by Margaret Ann (Manderson)



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Cute, Funny, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Revelations
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-04
Updated: 2021-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-17 01:07:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29833692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Manderson/pseuds/Margaret%20Ann
Summary: Cid feels adrift in his life, preferring to sink himself into his work than face any of the realities of his life--it's easier than being honest. But a chance encounter in his workshop might finally teach him that truth sometimes has the best consequences.
Relationships: Cid nan Garlond/Nero tol Scaeva
Comments: 4
Kudos: 9





	Things Unsaid, Things Undone

“Thanks, Alys!” Cid nan Garlond called, waving his hand behind him. His words were lost amongst the chattering customers and clanking of utensils on pottery, but the barkeep at The Seventh Heaven appeared to have heard him anyway. She smiled cheerfully and went back to filling pewter tankards with freshly-brewed Mor Dhonan ale. Seeing the cool amber liquid foam to white clouds atop each one, Cid briefly considered reclaiming his seat and having another, but he decided against it. _Too much to do tonight, and I already had two. An uneven three would be past my limit_. He waved once more and stepped out.

It was after ten in the evening, and all the braziers and streetlamps were lit. The sky roiled above in a haze of iridescent aether. Tendrils of ruby twined with amethyst, and streaks of topaz flickered periodically like lightning through them. In the distance, where the Crystal Tower rose like a beacon in the murky distance, the colors were even more intense. Cid made a mental note to add that to his research on the tower.

Eventually he’d have more time to devote to that project.

In the meantime, he had other important things to do. Things that the Hero of Light would need, things requested by factions in all of the major cities, things, things, and more things. Mechanical things, aetheric things, research-y things. Sometimes it felt to the engineer that his life was only things. People only liked him for his things. He knew it wasn’t entirely true, but it still felt that way sometimes.

On nights like tonight, when the moon was obscured to a pale sliver and even the light of the aether crystal in the center of the settlement felt dim, Cid wondered if it was worth even trying to be better than the things he made.

He sighed and shook his head. _Old fool, the weather might be gloomy, but there’s no reason to let your spirits be. Think about all those people with nothing to turn to, not even their work. At least you have that_. He closed his eyes for a moment, letting the chilly night breeze of northern Eorzea wash over his bearded face, then continued across the square to Garlond Ironworks.

Upon arriving, however, Cid paused in front of the door. It was slightly ajar, and a faint golden light spilled out across the cobblestones. Slafborn, the man in charge of rebuilding Revenant’s Toll who generally stood watch outside the workshop, was nowhere to be found. Suddenly, the two ales and the mudpuppy stew he’d eaten for dinner felt like lead in his stomach. He slowly drew his gunblade and slid through the narrow opening.

Kneeling on the ground was a man clad in a crimson shirt with flowing sleeves and a tight black vest. His pants looked like leather and were expertly tailored, hugging the curve of each muscle. Nearby, a tan trench coat lay folded across a chair. The man’s golden curls almost shimmered in the light. Cid’s heart raced with adrenaline at seeing the interloper, adrenaline and—

“You, what’re you doing?” he asked gruffly, attempting to dispel whatever had come over him.

The man started, then swore. He rose to his feet elegantly, like a coeurl rising from a jungle perch. “Must you sneak up on me like that, Cid? Heavens forfend you announce your presence with more than a boorish shout.”

Cid clamped down on the flutter of his heartbeat at the voice, as familiar to his ears as the sound of hammers on steel. “Nero, why are you in my workshop this time?”

“What do you mean, ‘this time’? Whyever would I be in your workshop except to take your ideas and claim them as my own for the glory of the Garlean Empire?” Grandiose though his words might be, the familiar, mocking undercurrent of Nero tol Scaeva’s tone seemed just a touch more bitter than usual.

Cid rolled his eyes and placed his gunblade on the table near the door. “So you’ve decided to go back, then.”

Nero shrugged, his silk shirt shimmering in the light of the lamp overhead. “If I can bring them enough advanced tech to wipe Eorzea off the map, they might let me back in.”

“And is that what you really want?” Cid asked. His head cautioned him to maintain his distance from his childhood rival, but he couldn’t quite extinguish a flicker of hope.

“Who knows?” Nero leaned casually against a table, then winced.

Cid was at his side in a flash. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. Just caught my hand with the screwdriver when you snuck up on me like one of those damned Domans.”

“Let me see.” Cid took Nero’s hand and gently peeled off his half-glove. The buttery leather had taken the worst of the damage, but there was still reddened line where the metal had nicked his palm. Cid fought to keep his thoughts clinical as he examined Nero’s hand. Elite engineer and highborn though he might be, Nero’s hands were still as scuffed and calloused as any of the people Cid worked with.

“Give it to me straight, doc: am I gonna live?” Nero asked in what Cid could only assume was his best La Noscean accent.

“If not, I’m sure I can give you a suitable prosthetic. How does a hook sound?” Cid strode over purposefully to a cupboard against the wall and got some gauze and a little bottle of antiseptic.

“A hook?” Nero laughed. “Surely you can come up with something more creative than that. A double hook, at the very least.”

“With that attitude, you’re lucky to be getting a hook. I save my really good prosthetic ideas for people who aren’t planning on returning to the Empire.” Cid snagged a chair with his foot and dragged it over. It creaked slightly under the weight of his muscular frame as he sat down. He poured a measure of antiseptic onto the gauze and reached for Nero’s hand. Nero obliged, then sucked in his breath against the sting. His slender fingers curled reflexively around Cid’s hand. Cid’s heart skipped a beat, and he was glad he was sitting down.

Through clenched teeth, Nero said, “For what I have to deal with from you and your ‘ministrations,’ I deserve only the best. I would like full aetheric capabilities, as well as a built-in chronometer and temperature gauge. Oh, and a multi-tool.”

“Oh, of course you’d need to have a multi-tool,” Cid agreed, keeping his voice as light as possible despite his racing heart. “For all those multiple things that need tooling.”

“Shut up,” Nero said. His fingers seemed to squeeze Cid’s hand a little harder for a moment, then he pulled out of his grasp. “Are you nearly done? Can I get back to work stealing your tech?”

Cid wasn’t sure if he’d describe the chill that rolled down his back as relief or something else, an emotion he wasn’t ready to acknowledge. “Almost. But we should probably cover that up just the same. Especially if you’re going to go back to work. You don’t want to get any grease in it.” He looked around the table. “Now where did I put that box of bandages…”

Nero rolled his eyes. “You didn’t bring any bandages back with you. You probably used the last one weeks ago and didn’t bother buying replacements. I’ve known you most of my life; you never keep the really important things around, Garlond.”

He wasn’t wrong, but Cid wasn’t quite ready to acknowledge that, either. No, now was not the time for thinking. It was time for doing. He tugged the hem of his white shirt from his pants and tore off a long strip. “Here,” he said simply.

Nero seemed stunned, and he allowed Cid to take his hand. Cid wound the fabric in snug loops over the cut, binding it closed and protecting it from further injury. After a moment, Nero stammered, “Why did you do that? You ruined your bloody shirt, you idiot.”

No, the time for thinking had long since passed. “A visual reminder,” he said, his voice almost a whisper, “of how you have me wrapped around your little finger.”

Then Nero’s lips were on his, firm and hot. Nero’s hands cupped his cheeks, the cotton bandage warm from their combined body heat. Cid closed his eyes and melted into the kiss, snaking his arms around Nero to draw him closer. Their lips parted, and their tongues met in a tentative, teasing dance. In a corner of his mind, the part that was hyperaware of what was going on, Cid couldn’t believe it was finally happening, the thing he could never admit even to himself that he’d wanted, that the one person he’d always hoped to impress was there, pressed against him, caressing him, kissing him—

“And smooching. So much smooching, and mmm, yes, Nero, I love you! I love you, too, Cid, I should’ve told you sooner! And—”

“Tataru?”

The lalafell dropped what she was doing with a dismayed yelp and spun around on one booted heel. She blushed scarlet from the tip of her nose to the ends of her long ears; her face nearly matched the hat she always wore. “Don’t do that! I’m not doing anything!”

Urianger regarded her suspiciously. “Thou sayest you do naught, and yet I perceive that thou might be doing something…naughty.”

“Me? What? No, never!” Tataru flailed her arms in a wild panic, then shook her head. “I was, um, just getting ready to do things!”

“‘Things’?” Urianger repeated. He crossed his arms over his berobed chest.

“Yes! All the things! So many things! The things that need doing! Those things!” Tataru swallowed hard and cheered unconvincingly. “Yes, time to go thing-doing! Bye!” She dashed out of the room, desperate to quell her mortification at getting caught.

Urianger watched the door slam shut behind her, then knelt to examine what she’d left behind. A pair of small rag dolls, one in blue with hair of white yarn and a pair of bead “goggles,” the other wearing a shirt made out of a scrap of red silk and a smirk painted on with ink. “Interesting,” he said. Then, ever so gently, he pressed the faces of the two dolls together and added, “Smoochy smooch.”

The End.


End file.
